Scream
by infinite.regress17
Summary: The Doctor takes Clara to a spooky house at Halloween, for less than honest reasons. When they get trapped by a terrifying force, they have to face up to their true feelings if they are to survive.
1. Chapter 1

He liked the way she looked when she screamed.

If he was honest, and he very rarely was when it came to his feelings about her, he relished the way her hand felt in his when they bolted from whatever happened to be chasing them that week. He craved moments when they had to hide, in a cupboard or dark nook, and she pressed her body close to his, breathing fast. So that was probably why the Doctor and Clara Oswald found themselves walking, one crisp October evening, towards a rundown old house at the top of a hill. The boarded-up windows made the house seem like an old, blind man. A ramshackle spire pointed heavenward, framed against the rolling grey clouds. There was a storm coming.

"Remind me again why we're here," Clara said.

"All-Hallows House, a mystery." He waved his arm expansively at the three story house.

"It's very Scooby-doo."

"Scooby-what?"

"Never mind, what's the mystery?"

"The story goes that All Hallows is haunted by a young woman from the village who fell in love with the local surgeon. He was wedded to his work, always busy helping others and not himself. Well, she was desperate for him to notice her, and started rushing into dangerous situations so she could be by his side. Became quite the local hero. Dangled on a rope to rescue child who'd fallen into a well, wiggled in small spaces to take water to miners who were trapped by an explosion in the local tin mine, while the men were digging them out. All the time she hoped the surgeon would notice and love her back, but he never did. Then one October morning there was a ship wreck. The whole village turned out, and all day they hauled survivors off the stricken vessel, lashed by storms, until there was just one man left on board. The surgeon told her it was too dangerous, but—"

"She didn't listen?"

"No, by then they say she was addicted to the adrenalin rush. She tied a rope around herself and swum out to the ship, where the last man was clinging to the deck. They were both swept away."

"That's terrible."

"The surgeon went mad with guilt for a while, he holed up in this house and wouldn't come out. He said that her spirit was trapped here, haunting him and waiting for him to love her back."

"But it was too late. Tragic."

"It's just a story. Anyway, there have been lots of sightings over the years, and we have the technology to find out for sure." He patted his pocket, where he'd stashed his latest mad invention.

"You don't believe in ghosts!" She laughed, then said, "Oh, I know what you're up to."

"You do?" He paused for a moment. Was he that obvious?

"You were so disappointed that the apparitions in the Drum turned out not to be actual ghosts, you thought we'd come find a real one."

He nodded, a little relieved she hadn't rumbled his guilty secret. "Something like that."

"You could have parked closer," she grumbled, but smiled indulgently as she spoke. She shivered as a sharp gust of wind swept up the hill and swirled her hair around her neck.

He swept his arm expansively at the muted shades of the countryside. "And miss all this?"

Dark woods stretched away to the left, and behind them the lights of a village twinkled in the distance. They strode on through the twilight towards the house.

The high wrought-iron gates creaked as he pushed them open. She caught his eye and raised her eyebrow in the way she did when she anticipated an adventure. He really should stop doing this, he told himself, it was dangerous and he had a duty of care. But at the same time there was something addictive about being in the middle of a mystery with Clara Oswald. She walked boldly up the winding path, pushed through the overgrown shrubs as the gravel crackled under her feet. He followed a couple of paces behind her. Somehow he didn't think he'd stop anytime soon.

They stood together in front of the house and looked up. Three stories towered above them. The iron doorknocker in the shape of a gargoyle lay against the ancient oak door.

Clara glanced at him and grinned. "So what's the protocol for getting into a haunted house on Halloween?"

"I fear knocking would reduce the element of surprise somewhat."

She nodded, and scooted away from the door, passed more boarded windows and disappeared from sight. He grinned and took long strides to catch up.

When he rounded the corner she was already pulling at a loose board at a small window that, perhaps, led to a scullery.

"I tried that door, it's locked," she nodded at the small door, its blue paint chipped and peeling, he'd walked past.

She tugged at a board. He helped her pull it free and they peered inside. He wondered how his long legs would fit through the small frame.

She must have read his mind. "I'll pop through and open that door," she said.

How did she become so fearless? It happened gradually, he supposed. She got more and more like him every day. Something at the back of his mind flashed a warning, but it was dull and far away, and in this moment all he could see was an amazing woman, ready to go with him anywhere. Why would he ever give that up? He offered his cupped hands to boost her through the window, and with a last smile back at him she vanished from sight.

He stood at the back door and waited. It was almost fully dark now and silent but for an owl hooting in the night air. The stars shone through the clouds in patches and the full moon cast deep shadows of hanging trees.

He rested a hand on the cool wood of the door. "Clara?" he said softly.

Silence, but for the rustle of the trees in the wind.

"Clara?" How long did it take to open a door? Well, that depended on what you ran into on the other side, of course. He tapped his foot and rattled the door handle.

The wind whipped through the trees and scattered drops of rain began to fall, peppering his black jacket with tiny droplets.

"Clara!" he called, insistently now, wondering if this had been such a good idea after all. When there was no reply, he went back to the window frame and peered through.

"Raaa!"

"Ugh!" He jumped as her face appeared, then immediately smothered his gasp of shock. "Clara, that's not funny!"

"Well it is a bit," she said, smiling. "I can't open that door. Go back around the front, I've unbolted it."

"Okay. Don't—"

"Wander off? Bit late for that."

"I was going to say 'scare any ghosts without me.'"

She grinned, and before she disappeared she called, "Hurry up, there's some freakish stuff in here." What would she stumble into this time? He hurried back to the front of the house and opened the creaky door.

Once inside, she yanked him immediately into a small, dark cupboard in the hall way. Surrounded by coats, crushed toe-to-toe together, her hair tickled his chin and he could smell her perfume. He knew it was a guilty pleasure, he knew it was wrong to manipulate situations like this, but it was exhilarating to be this close to her.

She reached up whispered in his ear, "Quick, get it out then."

Heat rose to his face and he spluttered, "Clara, I don't—"

"Stop messing about," she hissed. "Your ghost-detecting do-dah. It's in your pocket. Get it out and scan the hall. I thought saw something."

"Oh, right the transphasic amplifier." Right. _Of course_ that's what she meant.

"What did you think—"

"Never mind."

Now she spluttered, "For god's sake, just scan the room!"

There was a low moan, and a buzzing from outside the door. He turned the amplifier on. It glowed blue, and made a gentle humming noise as the needle on the dial moved up and down. He nodded, then shook his head.

"What?" She was still uncomfortably close.

"It's here and not here," he said. A bit like his sense of decorum when she was pressed this close to him in a dark cupboard.

"That makes no sense," she said.

He felt her shaking her head by the way the air displaced around her. That was the trouble. He was hypersensitive, everything was amplified around Clara, every gentle touch burned, every glance set his hearts aflame. Very little made sense, anymore, and he was starting to _like_ the chaos. He grinned, because he knew she liked it too. "I know," he said, "let's go say hello."

They opened the door, just a crack, and he peered through over her head. A pale glow spread across the hall. At the centre was ethereal presence, it flicked in and out of focus but it clearly had the shape of a humanoid.

The transphasic amplifier in his hand hummed in time with the flickering image. First it showed ridiculously high levels of energy, then dipped almost to zero.

He stepped out of the closet and stood in the centre of the hall directly in front of the apparition. "Well, you're not a ghost. What are you?" he said.

The blurred apparition said nothing. The air was cold and dank around it, and a light directly above its head swung gently as if there was a breeze.

"Not very talkative, eh?" the Doctor said, tapping the amplifier, which flicked from high to low again.

They both jumped as the clang of a lock snapping shut echoed along the corridor. They turned to see the heavy iron bolts on the front door draw sharply of their own accord.

Clara tugged his arm then slipped her small hand in his. He felt a flush of pleasure at the warmth of her skin, the way she seemed to like to be close to him these days.

The apparition in front of them took one step closer.

"Doctor—" Clara said.

"It's okay, I don't think it's going to hurt us."

Clara pulled closer to him, and he had to admit, he liked the feel of her arm pressed against his. She could do that as much as she wanted and he'd never complain.

"It's not that I'm worried about," she said urgently, looking over her shoulder and tugging him bodily around. "It's that. . ."

A yawning chasm opened up in front of the door, floorboards parting with an ear-splitting crack. Deep below flames flickered in the distance. The acrid smell of doom wafted upwards. Clara choked a little beside him.

The apparition began to slowly turn around. He stared, transfixed. There was something hauntingly familiar about the shape, but it blurred and flickered as if it was being deliberately distorted. It seemed human, but it was impossible to tell if it was a man or woman.

"What do you want?" he asked.

The figure raised an arm, pointed its hand at the space in between he and Clara. The voice was distorted like the image, neither male or female, low and grating. It said one word, slowly, stretching the sound. "Truth."

"The truth about what?" Clara asked. Her voice high which meant she was spooked, and she gripped his hand tightly.

"Truth," the voice repeated, then took another step forward.

He tugged Clara's hand, in the direction of the stairs, because with the phantasm ahead, and the fiery hole in the floor behind, there really seemed to be only one way to go. The looked at each other. He felt the adrenaline surge and saw the fire in her eyes so he knew she felt it too.

They said in unison, "Run!" and hurtled towards the stairs.

He dashed up the stairs, two steps at a time, his long legs taking easy strides, dragging Clara as he went. Behind them, the floor was gone and a fiery pit in its place. No going back that way then. They paused at the top of the stairs. Left or right? His transphasic amplifier registered off the scale no matter which way he pointed it. No help there. He had an uneasy feeling, though. As if he was missing something. There was something odd, yet familiar about this house.

"Which way?" Clara asked. Her breath came in short gasps and she stared at the blazing abyss with wide eyes.

He knew he shouldn't take pleasure in seeing her like this, but she was beautiful, so vibrant, captivating. No wonder he couldn't stop bringing her places like this, no matter what his better judgement whispered in his ear.

He looked left and right. The old house was dark, the wall paper peeled in long strips and hung loose from the walls. Cobwebs in dark corners luminesced as if painted deliberately to be noticed. To the left, a door creaked open then banged sharply shut. A window at the end of the hallway gave a tantalising glimpse of the full moon, and a tree swaying in the wind.

"This way," he said, and pulled her towards the window.

With an icy blast of air, the apparition returned, ethereal, just on the edge of his vision. The voice boomed again. "Truth!"

"Truth about what?" Clara asked, looking at him. "What does it want?"

The readings on the transphasic amplifier made no sense. He took the sonic glasses from his top pocket. Through the lenses the apparition was a little more defined, the outline was definitely human, but the features were blurred, slowly shifting, as if something was deliberately concealing the identity of a projected interface. The figure raised an arm again, and pointed at the space between them.

Clara took a step forward. "Are you lost, or stuck somewhere? Do you need help?"

The figure shook its head. "Your truth can save me," it said, its voice echoing along the halls. As it took another step towards them, a rush of air whipped Clara's hair around her face. She was fearless, magnificent and brave. He couldn't help but feel a little proud.

A door to the left creaked open. "You want us to go in there?" Clara said, and before he could stop her she'd dropped his hand and stepped through. She turned back to him, grinning, caught up in the excitement, but before he could follow her through, the door slammed in his face.

"Clara!" he rattled the door handle. It didn't budge. "Clara!" he banged on the door in frustration. The wood under his fist became hot, then then glowed red. In seconds a searing heat covered the door, flames flicking along its whole length. He cursed under his breath and took a step back. This wasn't what he had in mind at all.

#

The door slammed shut in Clara's face. She shook the handle, and when that did nothing she slammed her fist into the door. "Doctor!" There was no sound from beyond, but she heard a heavy, wheezing breaths from behind her. She whipped round. The room was pitch black. There was something in here with her. Her heart raced and she searched desperately for a light, a weapon, anything. She bumped into a small circular table next to the door. Keep calm, she told herself. Keep your head and you'll get out of this. You always do. She fumbled on the table, and found the cool metal of a tall thin object, topped with a waxy stick. After a moment she realised it was a candlestick. Convenient. She patted the table beside, and found a box of matches.

"Okay," she said uncertainly. Her throat was dry, and she felt her heart pounding as the raspy breathing continued. With trembling hands she struck a match. The room flared with a brief orange glow. Something was stretched the floor, trying to drag itself towards her. She pressed herself to the wall, fumbled for another match to light the candle, afraid of what she would see, but more afraid to be alone in the dark with the twisted shape on the floor.

Fighting to keep her hands steady she struck another match and lit the candle. Terror froze her, gripped her chest like an icy hand. On the floor, crawling towards her was a man, face torn and bloody, hands red with blood and claw-like.

The voice rasped, "Clara." Involuntarily she screamed and the candlestick almost slipped from her grasp. Her throat was tight, she tried to speak but could find no words. She forced herself to look at the shape on the floor. With sinking horror in the pit of her stomach realisation hit her.

The figure was a man, his features were horribly distorted, but his nose had that elegant profile, his grey hair was matted on one side, and the left side of his face was raw. His jacket was a deep red velvet, but tattered and covered in dust. He lifted a hand to her and said weakly, "Clara."

She fell to her knees and sobbed, "No! Doctor." Her thoughts raced. How could this be?

He reached a bloodied hand to hers, his fingernails black with dirt, and she grasped it tightly. His flesh was rough to the touch. With his hand in hers, though, he seemed to relax. "My Clara," he said, his voice barely audible.

She cradled him, brought his head to her lap, and sobbed. Hot tears spilled uncontrollably and landed on his bloodied cheeks. "No," she moaned, over and over. "Don't leave me."

"I did it for you, Clara. I'd do it all again," he whispered.

"Do what? Did what? Please, please don't let this be."

Her head spun. How could this happen? It had to be some kind of trick, a dream but he was laying here in her arms. He reached up a hand towards her face.

"I should tell you—" he murmured.

She leaned closer and brought her ear close to his lips. "Tell me what?"

The door behind her creaked open. Footsteps in the room. His voice, murmuring, and also, his voice from behind her. She turned her head sharply.

"Clara?"

The light in the room flashed on, and the Doctor stood in front of her. Her perfect Doctor, whole, unbloodied, and yet she had felt him in her arms, broken and bleeding. She looked down. Her hands, a moment ago slippery with his blood, were clean.

She leapt up, sobbing, and flew to him. "Doctor!"

Bemused, he wrapped his arms around her. "What's wrong?"

She could hardly form words. She just held him close, listened to the reassuring beat of his hearts, let him soothe her for a moment before she pulled away.

"I thought—" She looked up at him. He wiped away a tear with his thumb across her cheek. She covered his hand with her own. It was smooth, perfect, not bloodied or torn. "I don't know what it was, but you were here. Hurt, badly hurt."

"I'm fine. It was a trick."

"It was so real." She shuddered. "What is this place?"

"I don't know. But I have a suspicion. There's some time dilation here." He took the transphasic amplifier from his pocket and showed her a reading. "See, I'm picking up residual vortex fluctuations. Someone close by is tampering with time." He shoved the amplifier back in his pocket.

"What I saw, was that you from the future?" she shuddered. That was a future she didn't want to come to pass. She took a few breaths to calm herself. It was some kind of dream, or trick, it had to be, he was fine and right here in front of her.

#

The Doctor squeezed Clara tightly for a moment, then held her shoulders at arm's-length so he could see her face. That was always dangerous, much safer to hug and hide his face. The truth was, when he looked at her like this he had to fight the urge to kiss her forehead, or worse, kiss her lips. That was his old-self's way, not his. It was not fitting. The way she looked at him hardly helped matters. He wondered if she knew what it did to him when she captured his eyes like that, smiled the way she did. She sent a shock wave through him right now. This was no good. He took a step back and tried to compose himself.

"I think we should try to find our honest friend and see if we can get some answers."

Clara sniffed one more time and then nodded. "Don't leave me." She reached up and brushed an imaginary layer of dust from his shoulder. "You don't leave _me._ "

He wanted to crush her in his arms again. Hold her close and never let go, lose himself in her embrace, feel her heart racing next to his. Tell her he'd burn a billion hearts for her, go to hell and back, if she asked him. But the right words wouldn't come, so he just smiled and said airily, "Don't be daft. I'm not going anywhere."

They left the room and stepped back into the corridor. The lights were dim, and the window at the end of the house was speckled with raindrops. Black clouds partially obscured the moon, and lightning cracked, once then twice, through the night sky.

The amplifier bleeped in his pocket. The familiar rush of air blasted towards them, and the strange figure stood in the hallway. He set the sonic glasses to scan mode and peered over them. The image was slightly less distorted this time. Humanoid, short. He adjusted the setting on the amplifier.

"There, we should be able to communicate a bit better now."

Clara stepped forwards. "Whatever you're doing, it isn't funny."

The figure raised an arm. "Tell the truth!"

"What's that supposed to even mean?" she said. "You think you're being clever?"

The figure swiped its arm towards Clara, and when it spoke it's voice was laced with scorn. "Clever? You are so arrogant, Clara Oswald."

The Doctor stepped forward. "So you know us. Then you should know—"

"You're just as bad as she is. You think this is a game? You think you have all the time in the world? Take it from me, you don't."

"I'm starting to hate you," Clara said.

"You're a pair of idiots," the figure snapped back. It raised its arm, its voice booming, sounding louder and more terrible with every word. "This is my house, my rules, and you will tell the truth!"

"Or what?" Clara demanded.

"Or you will have eternity to regret it."

The whole house shook, lightning cracked again, and the hall plunged into darkness. A wind blasted from where the apparition had stood, blowing Clara's hair around her face, and flapping the Doctor's jacket. She reached for him in the blackness and he gripped her hand tightly. Reassured she was there with him, he started up the hall. Whatever that was, it was no ghost. And the time energy zinged and popped at the edge of his senses, disguised, but no one could fool him for long, he knew a trap when he was in one. None of this made sense. He followed the signal from the transphasic amplifier, and when the readings beeped wildly outside a door, he pushed through without hesitation.

Clara was gone. She'd been right here by his side, and she was gone. He spun back round to the door as it slammed in his face.

"Clara!"

"Doctor!"

He heard her banging on the door. "Oh, no you don't," he muttered, and scanned the door. It was not, as it appeared to be, wood. The door had been constructed with advanced technology , probably a matter replicator. He quickly found the frequency it operated on, and cancelled the signal. The door disappeared. Clara was nowhere to be seen, though, and he stepped out onto a cobbled street. Immediately the air around him changed. Earth, London, in the autumn. Almost. Close, but something was not quite right. He looked up and down the dark alley way. Clara was directly ahead, with her back to him, arms outstretched. He called her name, but she didn't turn. He called again and tried to take a step closer, but his feet wouldn't move.

"Clara!"

He heard the flapping of wings, saw a black bird swoop down at her. A breath of dark grey smoke hung above her head as she fell to the floor. His hearts raced, his head pounded. This had to be a trick, just as what she saw earlier was a trick. He told himself that, but his stomach turned over anyway. Clara lay on the cobbles. His feet were suddenly freed, so he ran to her and pulled her lifeless body to him. This isn't happening. Can't be happening. If there was one thing he was sure of, as his hearts burned with rage, it was that he would never let anything take Clara Oswald away from him.

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	2. Chapter 2

"My Clara." Tears spilled down his cheeks and onto Clara's face as he cradled her in his lap.

A shadow fell on him. He looked up furiously. "What have you done?"

"Nothing. What happens here is not your fault. But missed chances, feelings locked away because you are stubborn, or frightened or clueless, that _is_ your fault."

"Who the hell are you? What gives you the right—"

"You can call me the Director." For a moment the image flickered, then the room was empty.

Clara was by his side, on her knees, her hand on his back. "Doctor. What's wrong?"

He put his hand to her face, in the moonlight she was more beautiful than he'd ever seen her, vibrant, alive, his impossible girl, perfect for him in every way. He'd never needed to hold her as much as he did right then. He pulled her close. "My Clara," he said.

"What did you see?"

"It doesn't matter."

"Yes, it does. Tell me."

"I saw you. Hurt. Dead. It was a trick."

"Was it? You said there's archon energy here. What if the things we're seeing are not tricks, but the future?"

The possibility had occurred to him. "Then the future's not set. We're time travellers, Clara. We make the future. I won't let anything happen to you. Not ever. _That's_ the truth."

"Okay. Shall we try and get out of here?"

They got to their feet. Where the stairs had been, was a door, with a silver number 12 on the blue paint. They turned around. The window at the other end of the hall was also now a door. The same door, same blue, same silver 12. They turned around again. More doors, everywhere the same. There was little else for it but to open one.

Clara's mouth dropped open. "This is my room!" She rushed in. "My bed, my dressing table and mirror." She went to the window. "But outside it's still. . ."

The Doctor stood behind her and pointed out of the window. "Look at the window ledge, then glance out of the window with the corner of your eye."

"I don't get it."

He gently put his arms on her shoulders and maneuverer her so she looked at the window ledge. "You see the trees and fields, yeah?" She nodded. "Okay, now glance for a fraction of a second. What do you see?"

Clara gasped. "This house! I see the front of this house. How is that possible?"

He spoke quietly into her ear. "We thought we were in All-Hallows House. We're not. We're in something else disguised as All-Hallows House, plonked right in front of the real thing. It's very clever actually."

She turned around in his arms, she was so close to him now he could hardly breath.

"Clara. . ." her name died on his lips.

Her face coloured with the slightest of blushes. "What is this truth?" she whispered, eyes locked with his.

He had an uncomfortable idea about that. Clara stood in his arms with face turned up to him, and he had no idea what to say or do. How does a mountain admit he's in love with a mayfly? How does a gentleman, and he considered himself a gentleman, confess that he brought her here because he likes the way she looks when she screams?

"Doctor?" She looked up at him, expecting him to say something.

"Ah, you see, this, this is interesting." He sidestepped out of the embrace. "Very interesting. A physical representation of subjective elements of our future, or past, projected via a high-resolution alpha-wave progressive matrix—" He sat on the bed. Then he noticed he was sitting on her bed, and jumped up again.

"The tempro-linear equations needed to create this kind of hyper-spectral environ—"

"Doctor. You're rambling." She took a step forward. His hearts began to race and his cheeks flushed. What was she doing? Standing too close and sending his head into a spin, that's what she was doing. And she was smiling that sly smile, the one that gave him the uneasy feeling she knew exactly what was going on between them and he didn't. This was ridiculous. He was more than two thousand years old. He'd been round the block a few times, so how could one small human send him into a tailspin like this?

He said to the room at large. "You can stop playing games. You'll get no confessions from us here today."

The room shook, and with a terrible groan the walls began to move towards them.

Clara rattled the door handle. It didn't budge. "Doctor, can you open this?"

He walked to the door with sinking hearts. If what he suspected was right, then he wouldn't be able to open those doors. He tried the sonic glasses, the transphasic amplifier, and even the bottle opener he forgot to return to Arthur C Clarke after the incident with the lava lamp. Nothing worked.

The walls juddered and shook, and he took Clara's hand and backed towards the bed.

"What's going on?" she asked him.

"Someone is manipulating us."

"I worked that much out myself!" she said. She tried to brace the walls by pressing her back to the edge of the bed and the soles of her feet to the wall. "I didn't expect to end today in a trash-compactor!"

He braced the wall with his shoulder, but it moved relentlessly forward. Soon there was no floor left and they were both forced onto the bed. They sat, side by side, squared in by four walls, in silence for a few moments.

"Well this is fun," she said after a while, clearly meaning it was anything _but_.

He looked up. "At least the—"

The rectangle above their heads creaked, a layer of dust floated downwards. The ceiling began to move.

"Bloody hell, you had to go and say that, didn't you? Look, think, what does this Director want?"

"The truth," he said simply.

The ceiling slowed its descent.

"I know, but the truth about what? We don't lie about stuff." As soon as she said it the ceiling began to move again. "Okay, so maybe, sometimes we are guilty of acts of omission!"

The square above them continued its descent, until they were forced to lay side by side, face to face.

"If you've got something to say I suggest you say it!" Clara gabbled.

"Sometimes I bring you places like this for less than honest reasons."

"You do?"

"Sometimes."

"If you've got a confession to make, spit it out before we get crushed to death!"

The celling was two feet above them now.

"Alright, I brought you here because I like the way you look when you scream, and you run, and you hold my hand. I like it, okay. Is that enough?"

The ceiling stopped. Clara stared at him, eyes wide, her face so close to his it was almost painful. He blushed, screwed up his own eyes, because he didn't want to see shock, or disgust, or disappointment in hers.

He felt the palm of her hand on his face. "Hey, it's okay." The room was silent for a moment, and the only sound was her breathing. It seemed to fill his senses. She rolled over and pressed her hand to the flock wall paper. "He's told me, he's confessed. So you can stop your sad little game now."

The grinding began again.

"Clara-"

"You must be joking!" she said, banging her fist on the wall. "Let us go!"

"Clara, I think maybe—"

"I'm not hiding anything!" she exclaimed.

A laugh echoed through the small space.

"I don't think the Director believes you."

The ceiling moved inexorably down.

He pulled her towards him. "Clara, calm down. Just tell me whatever it is, and maybe we can go home."

"I don't think—" the ceiling was inches away from their heads now.

"This is hardly the time for reticence!"

"Alright," she said angrily. "I sometimes wonder what it would be like to kiss you."

The small room shook, Clara yelped. "Okay, I think about it a lot. And I flirt with you. I know I shouldn't but I can't help it and you're just as bad and—"

She closed her eyes as the confession tumbled out, every moment expecting to feel the crushing weight of the ceiling on her. Then, instead of searing pain, she felt his breath on her face, and his lips against hers. Everything stopped. Time, space, nothing mattered but the sensation of his body pressed to hers.

"Oh," she said quietly, after the kiss broke. The room had returned to exactly the way it was when they walked in. "What just happened?"

"I think we just had a moment of candour."

She remained still, aware of how fast she was breathing, and of how close he was, that his usually pale cheeks were tinged with a flush of red. She was aware too of his grey-blue eyes and his silver curls, and above all, she was aware of just how much she longed to kiss him again.

"What do we do now?" she asked. Did he kiss her because he meant it, or just to stop them from being crushed to death? She gazed deeply into his eyes, and for a moment it seemed he was going to kiss her again.

Then the walls, the floor, the whole room shimmered and lost coherence. For an instant she saw white walls, and heard distorted voices.

"I told you this would drain the systems."

"I can stablise it—"

The room became a bedroom once more. The bed tremored and the Doctor leapt up and offered her his hand. "I think we should—"

"—run!" she finished the sentence for him as she grasped his hand.

The house shook itself to its very foundations, light fittings rattled as they ran under them, the bannister rail juddered and then snapped in two with an ear-splitting crack. The stairs behind them fell away into a black abyss.

At the bottom of the stairs, the front door was wide open, and there was a hole where floorboards should have been. Fires raged below, spitting flames upwards in the doorway.

"Are they real?"

"I don't know."

There was no way back. They paused at the bottom of the stairs, she one step higher than he, hand in hand, eye to eye.

"What do we do?" Clara asked.

"Do you trust me?"

"Always."

"Then we do what we've always done. Take a leap of faith. I'll go first."

She held tight to his hand. "No," she whispered and pressed her lips lightly to his. "Together, or not at all."

He smiled then, as if he had met his match, met the one who would always jump through the flames with him. He murmured, "I love you, Clara Oswald."

They both gripped the other's hand tightly, and ran, one pace, two, then jumped over the broken floorboards and the fiery pit, and through the flames licking up in the doorway. Clara braced herself for the heat, but there was none. They hit the ground, she stumbled.

He caught her before she could fall. "Got you."

Then they were up and running, and they flew through the darkness, not once looking back, until the TARDIS was in sight and they fell gratefully through the doors.

#

The All-Hallows house that had terrorised Clara and the Doctor, shimmered and disappeared, revealing, had there been an observer to notice, the real All-Hallows house directly behind it. A wheezing, groaning sound filled the night air briefly, and then all was still.

In the space-time vortex, two travellers glowered at one another across the console of a Type 40 TARDIS. "You took a big risk, _Director._ " The first woman said, her haughty voice laced with sarcasm. "Hacking into Gallifrey's matrix to steal data and making holographic projections from it. Using the chameleon circuit to make a house. It was never intended to manipulate structural features like that. You could have overloaded—"

"Well, I didn't. No harm done," said the Director.

"No harm? You've interfered with your own past! What about all those things you said on the Trap street about noble sacrifice? 'Be a Doctor'." Ashildr's sarcasm dripped from her words. "You're as bad as he is!"

Clara Oswald just smiled. Some things were fixed, some things were inevitable and painful and just had to be. Perhaps she would always have to die on the Trap street and be sentenced to live in a frozen body. Maybe she'd get used to it one day, and come to believe that him forgetting her was for the best. But she knew, better than anyone save the Doctor himself, that time exists in a state of flux. If she couldn't change her present, then at least she'd live her past to the full. Re-write time? Dangerous? Perhaps. Ill advised, certainly. But she'd done it before, and she'd do it again.

"Ashildr, he told me memories become stories. Memories are all I have now, I'm going to make damn sure they're good ones," she said carefully. She knew Ashildr would feel she had to argue the point, but that she'd cave in the end. She always did; the bottom line was she still felt guilty for what she'd done and Clara knew her friend couldn't deny her this. It was too late anyway. It was done, and she could already feel a gentle fizz in her temples.

Sure enough, Ashildr gave in and shrugged. "Alright. Is it working?"

Clara smiled as new memories jostled her synapses and integrated themselves into her neural pathways. "Let's just say that honesty is the best policy, shall we?"

"You're impossible, Clara Oswald."

"Thank you. That's probably the nicest thing you've said to me all year."

#

The Doctor and Clara were out of breath, laughing, and stumbling out of the darkness and into the TARDIS. They too were in the space-time vortex, but a billion lifetimes away from Ashildr and the Director.

Clara said, "That made absolutely no sense. Who would care about whether we're honest with each other, except—" Her eyes widened in realisation, "—us," she finished quietly.

The Doctor rested a hand on her shoulder and put a long finger to her lips. "I think there are still some things better left unsaid."

She took hold of his finger. "Was that you? You from the future?"

"Clara, I think we should just stick to dealing with the present, because frankly that's complicated enough." He looked down her as if he hadn't the faintest idea what to say next.

She held onto his finger and let an impish smile run across her face. "So, you like the way I look when I scream?"

He blushed. "I think we've established that's true. I'm an idiot. A sorry idiot," he let his breath out from between his teeth. "But you're not much better, with flirting and . . . kissing."

"You kissed _me._ "

"Because you wanted me to."

"What if," she said slowly, turning his hand over in hers, gripping his finger, "I wanted you to do it again?"

"Well, I suppose in the interest of _truth_ , I might just have to do it again."

He put one hand on her hip, the other in the small of her back and pulled her closer.

She turned her face up to his.

He kissed her again and she wondered, dimly, why on earth it had taken them so long. Her heart pounded, her body awakened, and she wanted more. They'd waited long enough. A little surprised at her own boldness, but grinning all the same, she grabbed his lapels and whispered in his ear, "You know, there's more than one way to make a girl scream."

His eyes widened for a moment, then the corner of his mouth twitched up into a smile. He took a step backwards,towards the corridor that led into the heart of the TARDIS, tugging her with him as he went.

"We have space and time, in this magic blue box, for a lot of screaming," he said, unable to keep his eyes off the woman had loved so long.

When she smiled, he thought his hearts would burst.

"I hope so," she said. "Honestly, Doctor, I think you're going to love the way I look when I scream."

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